In the late 1980s, when Janet Gray (now Janet Coonce) was in fourth grade at Capshaw Elementary School, she—along with every other child in her class—took home a delicate tree seedling planted in a Styrofoam cup. Those seedlings were the highlight of the lesson taught by Barbara Lee (now Barbara Greeson) about Tennessee’s state tree, the tulip poplar.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Janet’s dad helped her plant the seedling in their backyard, where they lovingly tended it. Decades passed. Now the tree is 80 feet tall. Suspended from one of its branches by a pulley is a birdfeeder that can be lowered and filled with seed and then raised high above the ground so squirrels and raccoons and possums and deer can’t get to it.
Poplar trees are especially noticeable this time of year, when their tulip-shaped, yellow-gold leaves—in sizes as small as a baby’s hand and as big as the paw of a black bear—litter the ground. Those fallen leaves curl up and turn brown and, if not burned or stuffed into plastic bags, become part of the soil from which they began.
And the great cycle of life goes on.
It’s hard for me to pick just one tree species I love most, but if hard pressed I would have to pick this one. Maybe that’s because I love history, and these trees remind me of many happy field trips my late friend Calvin Dickinson and I took in search of a cabin reportedly built from just one tall poplar tree.
In the latter part of the twentieth century, he and other faculty members at Tennessee Tech were involved in a project aimed at locating and cataloging centuries-old log cabins built from poplar trees. (Poplars were preferred for cabin-building not only because they were plentiful, but also because their wood is straight, easily hewn and extraordinarily resistant to insect infestation.)
Legend had it that somewhere in our neck of the woods was the one-tree cabin. For many months, Calvin and I tromped all over the Upper Cumberland looking for it. We braved heat and cold and rain and mud and poison ivy and snakes and mosquitoes and ticks and rusty barbed wire fences and loose cattle and mean dogs and even one cabin-owner who—and I’m not making this up—met us on his front porch armed with a shotgun.
We never did find that one-tree cabin, but we sure had fun looking for it.
Or maybe I love poplar trees because of how they fit into the history of the Great Smoky Mountains, which were almost destroyed by logging in the early 1900s. With no regard for anything but acquiring the biggest and best trees of the forest (including–of course–poplars), lumber companies harvested two-thirds of the trees in the Smokies. Many were simply cut and sent crashing down the steep mountainsides, obliterating all wildlife and vegetation in their path, and then loaded onto waiting railroad cars. In less than 20 years, a place once known for its indescribable beauty became a scene from a nightmare.
Fortunately, environmentalists and philanthropists stepped in before it was too late. More than 13 million dollars was raised to purchase half a million acres of land in Tennessee and North Carolina from individual owners and lumber companies. Once the logging stopped, nature began to heal itself. In 1934, the U.S. Congress officially established the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The park is still home to several “old growth” poplars that escaped the murderer’s ax, including one that measures 25 feet in circumference. Most of these trees are hard to get to, but definitely worth the climb.
Barbara Greeson is a dear friend of mine. So are Janet Coonce and her parents. Last week, I visited the tall, tall poplar in their back yard so I could write this column. More about that coming soon…
(November 23, 2024)